


Soldier's Eyes

by FeralCreed



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Antisemitism, Character Study, Concentration Camps, Gen, Human Trafficking, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Kidnapping, Murder, Past Brainwashing, Torture, Violence, World War II, some of it's implied and some of it's explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/pseuds/FeralCreed
Summary: I got a lot of Thoughts And Feelings about Jewish Bucky out of nowhere and idk this happened. Bucky's history (MCU-based) from childhood to Captain America: The Winter Soldier and then chucks in a bit of original stuff at the end. Unbeta'd. Heed the tags. You can probably read this as pre-slash Stucky if you want to but it wasn't written with any particular ship in mind.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Soldier's Eyes

_I've seen inside the devil's dreams where young men die_

_And graveyards open up their arms for mothers left to cry_

_I have seen the bleeding and I hate what we've done_

_But just like every other fool here I'll keep marching on_

The lot of them grow up in Brooklyn. Two tenement buildings on opposite sides of the same road that let them yell to each other from their rooms. A little too wild at times, but Bucky's dad didn't come back right from the Great War, and Stevie's dad didn't come back at all. That meant there wasn't really anyone who could make the Barnes kids behave if they didn't want to. And once Bucky meets Steve, there's nobody who can stop them from taking him in and making him one of their own. Funny how fate makes things work.

He's busy with his job, and escorting his sisters to dances, and dragging Steve out of back alleys and parking lots and anywhere else that a scrappy kid can throw a punch. All of that starts becoming less important in 1939 when another war starts tearing through the world. Bucky's worried. He knows the scars that the first world war left on his family – his families – and he doesn't want to see what the second one will do. He wishes the States will stay out of this one.

Two years later, there's a bombing in the islands, and Bucky's hopes go up in smoke like the harbor. His mother breaks down into tears when she hears what happened. He knows why. The Service Act last year required him to register for the draft, and the States is gearing up for war. Brooklyn boys got heart, yeah, but that ain't gonna be worth much against landmines and machine guns. He doesn't want to see his friends come back in caskets. He doesn't even want to see them go.

Of course, that doesn't mean much to the United States government. Bucky gets called up and pretends that he enlisted, that everything's okay and he wants this. If mama starts crying one more time, he's gonna cry too. He says goodbye to her and his sisters and his Steve and then he's on a ship going to England. He dreads arriving there. He's heard his father talk when he's drunk and scream when he sleeps, and he doesn't want what's coming.

It's dark and quiet in the ship's barracks. He's glad he's not the only one with a solemn look now. The others used to tease him during training, because he hadn't been able to keep a brave face without his family there to step up for, but now most of his mates look like him. He wishes he could think of something to say to make them feel better, but just the thought of the lie is brittle and ashy in his mouth.

He wonders how long it will take them to start dying. He isn't about to voice a thought like that, though, and instead he just waits until the cigarette between his lips burns down to ash before he turns in. if he had to guess, none of them sleep much. When they show up in London seventeen days later, he puts on that brave face again, smiles and waves to the girls crowding around the dock, and keeps everything else locked away in the back of his mind.

_Father forgive us for what we have done_

_We have to finish what we have begun_

_And pray that tomorrow we may see the sun_

_There's a red dawn over the land_

He fucking hates Italy. They've been here for the better part of three months, he thinks. It's hard to tell the days apart when it's the same blood and dirt coating every one. At least his unit has outgrown the jokes that characterized the early days of their deployment. Although at this point he thinks he'd love a cheap shot at his Romanian heritage if it meant that people weren't shooting at them all damn day.

He slips and barely manages to catch himself before crashing face-first into the ground. He's tired; if he thought he could get away with it, he'd just lay here a minute. Shit. He's bleeding. That's not good, a cut out here can get you killed with how impossible it is to sterilize anything. Someone pulls him up before he can spend too long thinking about that, pushes him forward to hurry him towards cover. He mumbles out a thanks that he's not sure the other man hears.

Doesn't really matter anyway. They're all past the stage of needing to hear a polite word from each other. Once you've seen each other bleeding and crying and shellshocked, things like manners just seem to fall by the wayside more often than not. It's not exactly something he worries about. But he does wish they could stop for just a few hours and get some rest somewhere that isn't the middle of a war zone.

There's no getting that, though, so he just checks his rifle and looks to their squad leader, McDougal. It's too dangerous to stop here for any longer than is necessary. Once that heavy artillery gets knocked out, they'll have to make a run for it. A shell lands far too close to them and he flinches despite himself. They can't stay here, where the hell is their support, they need an escape route – there, finally! The words of a prayer tumble over themselves in his mind as he sets himself to run.

 _Keep far from us all evil._ McDougal breaks from cover and the rest of them follow. A bullet takes down Reid but there's no way any of them can double back under enemy fire to even see if he's dead or not. He's seen so many of his friends die that there's barely even a twinge of grief in his heart under all the desperation of a man running for his life.

 _May our paths be free from all obstacles._ The man next to him stumbles, and Bucky grabs him by the back of the shirt and hauls him along. Something Hardy, a young kid, only just transferred to their unit a couple days ago.

 _From when we go out until we return home._ They finally make it to real cover, to a trench dug into the battlefield where they don't have to worry about bullets or shrapnel. Hardy's sobbing like a child and Bucky spares half a moment to wonder if Reid's death is the first he's seen. It doesn't matter, he decides.

He fucking hates Azzano.

_Just for a minute, the silver forked sky_

_Lit you up like a star that I will follow_

_Now it's found us, like I have found you_

_I don't want to run, just overwhelm me_

He's been hallucinating ever since those Hydra motherfuckers started drugging him, but he'd thought he was coming out of it when he saw Steve Rogers come into the room. Or, well, someone that looked like him. There was no way Steve was anywhere near this corner of hell. No way he could ever look like that, either. But whoever or whatever this is, they're getting him out, so Bucky goes along with it and hopes he won't wake up for at least a few hours.

Steve drags him out of the lab, and even though Bucky knows this is just some kind of vision, he could almost cry with relief at getting out of that place. It's been eighty-four days and he doesn't know how he could ever make it to an eighty-fifth. Maybe this is what dying is like. You see your best friend coming for you and for a little while nothing hurts.

Then he trips and Steve's not quite fast enough to catch him, and reality comes roaring at him. Oh, this is real. He gets up on his own and they manage to almost make it out before they run into Schmidt of all people. Bucky loathes the guy, he's a creep and a sadist and has killed too many men of the 107th for Bucky to look at him with anything but hate. Hate and shock when the man pulls his face off, and that's definitely going to show up in his nightmares at some point.

They get out of the facility, though, and then it's thirty miles back to safety. He knows he's not going to make it, but he can get his friends as far as he can before he collapses. Except he keeps putting one foot in front of the other. It's the first time he realizes something is wrong. He knows the limits of human endurance and there's no way he could have pushed so far beyond them with no repercussions. He sits in a medical tent and stares at his hands, wondering how long he can hide what he is.

Steve comes in, and Bucky has no idea why he's there, but just the sight of him brings the first real smile he's had for the better part of two years. He doesn't say anything about what the scientists did to him. His friend doesn't ask. Instead, a few weeks later, when Bucky's ready to go home – Steve asks him to follow and Bucky can't tell him no.

_There's a ghost in the mirror_

_I'm afraid more than ever_

_My feet have led me straight into my grave_

_Oh Lord have you walked away?_

_Oh Lord have you walked away from me?_

He won't admit it, but he's terrified to be in central Germany. Sure, people have never been too friendly towards people like him. He can't even remember how young he was the first time he heard that word that made his stomach flip over in shame and anger. But there's a difference between some asshole muttering a word under their breath as they stare at him, and facing the depths of a war that's focused on destroying people like him.

He used to have family near here, and then a few months after he enlisted, they stopped writing. He's purposefully not been thinking about why – turns out being in the middle of a war zone is great for taking your mind off distant relatives – but here it feels like it's always just one step behind him. Every story he hears and every rumor that spreads is yet another reminder that any one of these people could be him.

In his nightmares, sometimes they already are. He hadn't mentioned what he was to the 107th. It wasn't that he was ashamed of it or anything, it was just that they already looked at him weird for being Romanian, back when any of them could care about that. He didn't want to stand out even more. And he didn't want them to look at him with pity, either, when more news came about mass graves and camps and dead children.

For a while, he'd been worried that Azzano had put an end to that. Zola had gotten some sick pleasure out of elaborating why Bucky had been chosen for his experiments – because he caused trouble by trying to protect his friends, because he was Jewish and therefore lesser, because he dared look the guards in the eyes. It was only after their release that he'd realized all that gloating was kept between the two of them. He'd call it a small mercy, but it wasn't, really. It was just another layer of fucked up.

He's heard about what things are like in places like these and he wonders how bad of a person it makes him to hope that anyone he might have known died quickly. Steve keeps giving him little looks all through their march to Buchenwald, like he knows, but Bucky always finds a reason not to make eye contact. For once, his friend lets it go. He's not sure why, but he's definitely grateful.

It's probably just because there's not really any time to stop and talk. The Third Army got an SOS from the camp three days ago and the Howlies had been quick to offer to go with them to help liberate the prisoners still trapped there. By all rights, they should have been taking a few days of rest after their most recent mission. But when Bucky had volunteered to go alone, it had only been a matter of minutes before the Howlies had protested at being left behind.

He's even more grateful for their support now. The gates to the camp are still closed, and his mouth goes dry at seeing _Jedem das Seine_ right there in bold capital letters. No matter how many times he sees those words, he still hates them. Steve puts a hand on his arm and he shakes it off with a quiet, muttered, “I'm fine.” He isn't, but they both ignore that. Instead they break the lock on the gate and enter the camp. It's quiet, no guards in sight, and Bucky fights down the bile in his throat at the thought that they might be too late.

It feels more than a little odd to be relieved at the sight of prisoners pointing guns at them. The Third Army soldiers at his back start yelling for them to put their weapons down, but only an idiot would think they'd do that, and Bucky's half surprised that the shouting doesn't scare them into firing. The Howlies are at his back, the Third Army a somehow distant background noise, as he holsters his pistol and steps out in front of the American soldiers with his hands spread.

He thinks the sound behind him might abruptly stop as they realize what he's doing. They're not the only ones staring at him now. Even the Howlies must think he's crazy for doing this. But he'll never forgive himself if they kill another single person here, and this is the only way he knows to get their attention without an action that might be seen as aggressive.

“Shalom aleichem,” he says softly, his hands still outspread, and the eyes of the man pointing a rifle at him fill with tears as he lowers his gun. Bucky manages to catch him before he collapses, and sits with him watching the soldiers and the prisoners celebrate together. Neither of them speak. When the 83rd announces that they're attacking Langenstein, framing it as an invitation to the Howlies, Bucky simply shakes his head. He can't.

The others go without him and he stays to do what he can to help the people they saved. He won't be able to linger long. A few days at the most, before they're told where to go next. But he can do what he can in the meantime. He doesn't speak much German, but he's fluent in Hebrew, same as many of the prisoners, and he knows firsthand how terrifying it is to be surrounded by armed men speaking a language you can't understand.

When the Howlies finally announce they have to leave, Bucky's stopped by the man he sat with that first afternoon. _Kol HaKavod_ , he says, placing his hands on Bucky's shoulders, and Bucky's embarrassed to have to fight back tears at the simple praise.

“Toda raba,” he whispers back. “Refuah Sheleimah.” He thinks it might be awful to find relief in the middle of a fucking concentration camp, a place where his people have been slaughtered, but Noam is the only person to properly pray for him since he left his mother. It brings a peace to him to hear the same traditional blessing that she would have spoken over him if she were here. The Howlies, bless them, pretend not to notice that he's still wiping away tears as he joins them.

“C'mon, Buck,” Steve says, giving him an understanding smile. “We've got a train to catch.”

He hopes Steve won't remember that and blame himself. There's melted snow seeping through his coat and more flakes drifting down to cover him. It's freezing out here. Maybe that's why he can't feel his one arm. Even though he wishes he could have gone back home, kissed his mama and sisters, maybe even married and settled down... he doesn't have the fight left in him to get back up from this. He tries to remember what was said at his uncle's funeral, something about mercy and a valley full of shadows, but his eyes are closing and it brings him peace.

_Oh, Lazarus, did you want to wake up? Or did God drag you clawing and screaming back into the light, when all you wanted was to stay dead? Ain’t no grave can hold my body down, but_ Jesus Christ, _I wish it could._

He wakes up shrieking, agony burning through his whole body, his body arching off the cold metal table that men in white coats are trying to hold him down on. No. No, no, no, whatever this is, he doesn't want it. He sobs as hands push him against the table and a leather cuff pinches against his wrist. He begs them to let him go, but their faces are frighteningly impassive and his head reels with the sickening, burning fear of a nightmare. He never put much stock in the saying that war was hell, because in hell there were no innocent bystanders, but he doesn't think he can say the same thing here, because he knew a long time ago that he'd damned himself. He never wanted to kill people, he never wanted to become what he is, he just wanted to make sure he'd get to go _home_ –

_Used to feel my body shake, I won't_

_Ever break another bone_

_We ran out of luck I know_

_Now we're indestructible_

When he wakes up a second time, his mind is too addled from the drugs for him to panic. The same men in white coats are standing all around him. This time they look excited, but he can't figure out why for the life of him. It hurts too much to think like that. Did someone hit him? He raises his hand to check but stops, staring fascinated at his own limb. It's all shiny and metallic and... is he dreaming or something?

He raises his other hand, but that one looks perfectly normal, and he turns them around to look at his palms. Those are his hands. Pain strikes him and he cries out, the fingers of the metal hand scraping against each other with a horrific screech as his hands tighten into fists. He tries to get up, to run, but then there are hands pushing him down and he's not strong or coordinated enough to fight against half a dozen men.

They lean over him, chattering in what he thinks might be Russian, and he doesn't even try to keep himself from panicking. He struggles against the straps keeping him in place and tries to ignore the way his right wrist is already rubbed raw. He can't remember doing it, but he must've been fighting in his sleep or something. One of the doctors approaches him with a syringe, and Bucky doesn't know what's in it, but a few moments later he has to give in to the darkness clouding the edges of his vision.

_And all the people say,_

“ _You can't wake up, this is not a dream_

_You're part of a machine, you are not a human being”_

The Asset sits in a cell. It does not talk. It does not move. It barely breathes. The men guarding it are fascinated with its history, with the stories they've heard about it and the kills accredited to it. They discuss names that mean nothing to it. Zhang Chin. Itsu. Larbi Tbessi. John F. Kennedy. It is only awoken when it is needed and it knows to wait patiently until it is given orders. How long that takes doesn't matter to it.

The two men only stop talking when their commanding officer approaches them. Both men give sharp salutes before standing at attention. The Asset does not move. It is not supposed to, until it is given its orders. It does not know what will happen to it if it disobeys, but the idea brings memories of unbearable pain to mind, vicious and raw enough that the Asset shies away from even thinking about those memories. It's certain it's not meant to have them.

“Soldat,” the officer says sharply.

It recognizes the word it answers to. Not a name, the men in white coats always remind it, simply a designation. The correct response has been beaten into it enough times that it is not an effort for it to remember what to do. It stands and approaches the bars, where it salutes the officer without looking him in the eyes. Its gaze is focused on the blank concrete wall behind the officer instead.

“Ya zhdu prikazaniy.”

The two men open the cell and start preparing it as the officer reads a file with the only information it will ever remember learning. The same corner of its mind that cowers away from the memories hates the straps of the vest but it knows better than to say anything. It is permitted only a set series of responses, and none of them include _wanting_ or _disliking_. Such things are not allowed for it. It is a tool and tools do not have desires.

It tilts its head forward, waiting for the muzzle to be slapped across its face, not complaining as its hair is caught in the leather straps as they're tightened sharply. It's used to this. Its handlers are not gentle people, but the Asset was wiped a few hours ago, and does not remember gentleness. It recites back the information about its mission when it is asked and checks the rifle that it is handed. It leaves the cell with its handlers following and thinks of nothing but its mission.

_Now tell me, how did all my dreams turn to nightmares?_

_How did I lose it when I was right there?_

_Now I'm so far that it feels like it's all gone to pieces_

_Tell me why the world never fights fair_

1973 means nothing to the Asset. It is never told of the passage of time or the meaning of the dates it sometimes sees on papers. It does not know that it should look nearly twice as old as it does. It is dressed nicely, with a tuxedo jacket and gloves to hide that it is not entirely human. It has been given an extensive cover identity and thorough knowledge of the gala it will be infiltrating in order to retrieve information that an enemy of Hydra is carrying. It is ready for this mission as it has been for all the other ones.

It is deployed 1.2 miles from the building, just outside the radius of police and media that makes a team infiltration impossible. It manages to avoid them by using back alleys and rooftops to make its way to a building that it thinks should be called a palace. The route laid out by its handlers was ineffective, made by someone without a damn ounce of Brooklyn blood in 'em, and he abandons it for one of his own choosing. What dumbass thought he could take Flatbush Ave?

A man runs into the Asset and he snaps out a, _“Watch it, mister, you ain't got any reason to be on this side of the sidewalk.”_ The words are coated in a heavy accent that is strange to him, but he likes it. He speaks to himself as he walks down the sidewalk. He asks a punk what the hell he thinks he's doing, and stops moving when he realizes he actually had an expression on his face as he spoke. What is _he_ doing?

He sees two teenage boys jaywalk across the street, a dark-haired boy with his arm tossed over the shoulders of his shorter blond companion with a scowl that melts into a smile at a look, and his mind breaks. He has two months of freedom before Hydra finally catches him. It's not nearly enough to heal his mind from the last thirty years, but it creates a restlessness in him that none of the subsequent brainwashing or abuse can fully kill.

_I can't help this awful energy_

_Goddamn right, you should be scared of me_

_Who is in control?_

The Asset fidgets. This is not allowed. One of the men guarding it raps on the bars of its cell with his nightstick and tells it to sit still. It obeys. The scientists were in a rush to deploy him on time and weren't thorough with their post-wipe checks. There are fragments of Bucky's consciousness still in the Asset's mind, not enough to be noticeable at first, but slowly destabilizing the soldier from the inside out as he waits to be assigned a mission.

When an officer arrives with a mission briefing, the Asset does not respond to its designation. It sits in its cell as it is spoken to and stares the officer in the eyes, neither of which are allowed. The officer is angry and his subordinates are wary. A weapon such as the Asset is not one to be handled lightly, and they all know what happened to the people responsible for losing him twenty-three years ago. None of them want to face such consequences for breaking protocol themselves.

The Asset grins at them, sharp as a shark, and all three men flinch. Something is definitely wrong. One of the men is sent to contact the head office for guidance. The other two, and their commanding officer, stand in front of the cell and watch the Asset slowly disintegrate. He paces the cell, hands shaking too violently to even be balled into fists. He talks to himself in a jumble of different languages, the only intelligible words in flawless Russian or heavily accented American English.

The officer smacks the mission file against the bars to catch the Asset's attention. It lunges at the bars, face contorted in a snarl, eyes burning with hate. Its metal fingers rip the front of the officer's shirt in half but the officer considers himself lucky that his shirt was the only thing in reach. He hurriedly retreats and leaves his two subordinates to watch the Asset attack the wall, punching it over and over until the medical crew finally comes to sedate it and take it away for a thorough reprogramming.

Its mission is delayed until satisfactory results are achieved. The Asset does not know this. It is wiped before the sedatives wear off, and even when it is in its right mind, as much as it can be, there is no escaping its restraints. The team ensures that there are no mistakes made this time. They double check their work and wipe the Asset twice to make sure there is nothing of its former human self left. When its screams fade and its eyes open, it rasps out _“Ya zhdu prikazaniy”_ and then there is nothing more to be said.

Even hearing Bucky Barnes' name from the lips of Howard Stark later that night does not affect it in any way.

_Death doesn't discriminate_

_Between the sinners and the saints_

_It takes and it takes and it takes_

It has been thirteen years since the last near-breach. The Asset has performed flawlessly since. It does not know this itself, as it has no memories beyond what is necessary for this mission. But the men around it talk freely, and it is trained to gather as much information as it can. They talk about what it has done and it listens. It is unaffected by the stories of brutal murders and soulless torture, of children left without parents and mothers throwing handfuls of dirt over too-small caskets.

It is ordered to kill a scientist. If it can kill the scientist's escort as well, that is desirable, but it should not engage her at close range under any circumstances. It looks at the picture of the scientist and commits it to memory. It looks at the picture of the spy and recognizes her as a woman its human counterpart once thought he loved. It indicates nothing of the latter and proceeds to its mission.

The Asset meets the gaze of the woman driving the car as they race parallel. He remembers finding her to apologize for how he hurt her in training. He remembers the heat of her breath and the smell of her perfume when he was in bed with her. He remembers the way Russian had suddenly sounded a beautiful language when it came from her lips, as she spoke of a life they could have someday, as she smiled when she saw him come to her.

“ _Privyet, Dzheyms,”_ a ghost whispers in his ear.

He sends the car over the cliff. There are no handlers there to note his moment of hesitation. There are no handlers there to see how he shoots her in the stomach instead of the head. She screams and he flinches ever so slightly at the sound. They stay there for a moment, staring at each other, before he turns and walks away. Mission protocol calls for the Asset to eliminate any witnesses. Both of them know what it means that he leaves her alive, even if nobody else ever finds out how he spared her.

_Oh, 'cause they will run you down, down til the dark_

_Yes and they will run you down, down til you fall_

_And they will run you down, down til you go_

_Yeah, so you can't crawl no more_

He remembers falling. Skin scraping off one palm and sparks flying from the other. Chest heaving. Hair in his face. Getting back to his feet because he has no other choice, but too blind with fear to have any idea where he's going. His escape is nothing more than blind luck and he knows that it wouldn't hold out for long. But if he has a chance to get away, he has to take it, so here he is, fleeing into the night with no plans or any real hope.

He runs straight into a Hydra officer, both of them going down from the impact, the back of his head connecting had with the pavement. Laying on the road, gasping for breath and choking on his own blood thick across his tongue. He needs to get up. He needs to run before the officer can make it to their feet first. Instead he's hauled up to his knees as the sky opens up, rain pouring down and masking the tears on his face.

He just wanted to be free.

He fights back as they drag him away, kicking and scratching and even managing to sink his teeth into one man's arm before he's hit hard enough to be stunned. They manage to get him back into the bunker and the door slams shut behind them, the metallic sound ringing through the entranceway. He howls in rage and despair. He bares his teeth in satisfaction when the men carrying him flinch at the sound. None of it matters a few minutes later when the Chair whirs to life and brings Bucky Barnes' death.

_Used to be, I had light_

_I had fire in my chest_

_Oh, but now I'm all out_

_And I've got nothing left_

His voice is hoarse from screaming. He lies in the Chair, exhausted, unable to find the energy to even flinch away from the scientists' hands when they touch him. He thinks, from what little he's overheard, that they're experimenting with a new process for wiping his memories. It clearly isn't working if he knows that. He even thinks a few repressed memories might have cracked through what's left of his mind but he can't really be sure.

He can't tell reality from what's been implanted in his head for his missions. He can't trust his own mind. He thinks that the realization should be horrifying to him, but is it a realization if it's something he's known and been made to forget over and over already? Either way, it doesn't matter. It's been sixty years since he fell from the train, if the date he heard is right. There's no escaping this. If he hadn't lost most of his faith in the war, he'd think this was some kind of Purgatory or even Gehenna itself.

He's dully aware that tears are slipping from his eyes, streaking down his cheeks and dotting his shirt. It doesn't really matter to him. Hasn't he suffered enough? What more could anyone want from him? His mind wanders as the scientists huddle across the room to talk. He remembers Buchenwald. The blank, hopeless looks on the faces of men who had endured too much. He thinks he understands them now.

He understands why some of them gave up, too. He has a distant, half-formed memory of someone talking to him. Explaining how sometimes a man's spirit just can't take any more and leaves his body. He thinks that whoever told him that must be wrong. He's already given up, a long time ago, but his body and mind are still here. Not his soul, though. That's something he lost a long time ago.

The Chair turns on above him, and this time Bucky simply watches, unable even to scream.

_In the end, the choice was clear_

_Take a shot in the face of fear_

_Fist up in the firing line_

_Times are changing_

He's trying not to remember the name of the man on the bridge. It was a freak accident, he hears his handlers saying, a mistake, that nobody could have seen coming. Nobody could know that the Captain would be there and intercept the Asset on its mission. They can fix this, they can wipe the Asset and start over.

The more they talk about Steve Rogers, the more Bucky remembers about him. It pulls his mind in too many directions and he's too busy chasing the fractured facets of what he knows to pay attention to what's going on around him. He wouldn't think of disobeying anyway. He knows who he belongs to. They put him in the Chair, and by the time his mind clears enough that he remembers his best friend, the armature is already moving, and all he can do is scream.

He's lucky, in a way. They're too confident in their machinery and their process. They put him back in the field the next day with orders to complete his mission and to engage Captain America if he tries to interfere. Whoever is in charge of deploying the Captain must have given him the same orders, the Asset thinks, because the man is relentlessly pursuing him and getting in the way of his work.

So, obviously, the Asset shoots him. Not enough to kill him, because his orders are to bring the Captain back alive if he can. For a purpose similar to his own, likely, but the Asset is a piece of machinery in Hydra's plans and nothing else. He finishes his mission and doubles back on his tracks to get the Captain. It hasn't been long enough for him to bleed out, but the man isn't there where the Asset left him. Irritating.

He barely sees the shield coming at him in time to deflect it. It ricochets off his metal arm and embeds in the wall of the building next to them. The Captain didn't expect that, if his expression is anything to go by. The Asset calmly aims his pistol at him. The man surely can't be stupid enough to rush an armed and alert soldier. This should be a relatively easy retrieval. The thought of what's waiting for him after it makes him shudder. Something in the Captain's expression changes and he lowers his hands.

_Come with me, Buck. Whatever's going on, I can protect you from it. Just put the gun down._

“Ani mitnatzelet,” the Asset whispers. The understanding look on the Captain's face is perhaps the worst of it all.

_Beg me for mercy_

_Admit you were toxic_

_You poisoned me just for_

_Another dollar in your pocket_

He doesn't kill the Captain, but he doesn't go back to his handlers either. He holes up in a supposedly abandoned safehouse and lets his mind tear itself apart. It's the better part of three months before he looks at the outside world again. The Captain has been busy in his absence, he notes. There are half a dozen Hydra bases whose destruction has been accredited to him. The Asset is... proud, he decides. Of a punk-ass kid from Brooklyn who never knew how to back down from a fight.

The safehouse is heavily stocked with weapons. He sits in the living room and stares at them. He isn't sure what he wants to do, now that he supposedly has his freedom back, but the idea of intentionally engaging with Hydra makes him more than a little uncomfortable. Its survival is public knowledge now and there are no doubt an endless supply of soldiers willing to work to take them down.

Whether or not _the_ soldier will be one of them is a question he's not sure how to answer. Eventually he decides to accept the inevitable. Hydra will hunt him down and try to get him back. It's only practical for him to strike against them first before they find him. And it will at least give him as many advantages as he can have. His metal fingers _tick-click-tack_ across the barrels of the weapons in the cache.

Even when brainwashed, the Soldier had never liked being ordered to hunt innocent people. He finds that the opposite is true when it comes to handling the men who gave those orders. There can be no mercy against the monsters, he decides. Someday that will be turned back on him. People will hunt him in the streets, search for him in the dark corners of the city. But that will not happen today. Today he is the shadow in the dark. Today he is getting revenge.

He likes the way the rocket launcher destroys the entrance of the Hydra base. They've been his nightmare long enough. It's time for him to return the favor. The agents pour out of the base, firing blindly into the night. He simply waits for them to stop shooting before standing up just long enough to fire the rocket launcher again. They're all grouped at the entrance of the base, and one shot has them all dead or wounded.

He steps over the writhing bodies of those still living and continues down the hallway. He's not wearing the bulletproof vest they always strapped him into. It's uncomfortably reminiscent of a straitjacket and he wants nothing to do with it. He is wearing the mask and goggles, though. It makes him look alien and inhuman. He thinks it's rather fitting, considering they spent so long treating him as an object. They don't seem to be as fond of it now.

He moves through the facility, making clean shots, all to the head or heart. Even though he's here to destroy them all, he doesn't want to be cruel about it. There's certainly something to be said for the idea, and a part of him bays for it, hungry as a wolf under the full moon, but he pushes it away. He can't let Hydra survive in its current state. But he won't become what they are in order to destroy them.

They die screaming, begging the man they once saw as their property to spare them. It's enough to satisfy him for now. He sweeps through the base again, making sure that nobody is hiding from him, and leaves the place burning. He watches from a few miles away as emergency services show up, tracking their movements through his scope. He wonders if Steve will know it was home. He wonders if it matters. He decides to move on before anyone finds him.

_Who could ask you be unbroken or be brave again?_

_Or, honey, hope even on this side of the grave again?_

_And who could ask you to be sound or to feel saved again?_

_Just stick around until you hear that music play again_

He spends the next year hunting down Hydra operatives across the globe before he comes back to New York City. Steve has remained there since they last met. He knows that just from a few moments on the internet. The Captain really should get better security to conceal his location. It's not safe to have it so readily available. But it's helpful for him, so he decides to keep that opinion to himself for the time being. He'd prefer not to have to hunt the man down.

He finds Steve. Steve doesn't judge him for what he's done. That brings him more relief than he'll ever admit. It's strange to be held in someone's arms, like he's something more than a weapon, but he thinks he may like it. Even when he pulls away, he doesn't go far. They sit on Steve's doorstep and silently watch the sun set. Once it's gone, and the street bathed in a dusky glow, he gets up to leave.

Somehow this means that he ends up in Steve's home instead, watching the other man make dinner. He's not quite sure how it happens. Or what the feeling in his chest is when Steve mentions having a room ready for him. He thinks it might be very similar to hope.

Life settles into something of a routine after that. He and Steve stay together. He meets Natasha again – it's stressful for everyone involved, if he's any judge, and he quietly decides that it might be best if they avoid each other. She shows up again, however, although he's certain that it's only because she's assessing how much of a danger he is to Steve and the world in general. While she says nothing either way, nobody comes to take him. He passes her inspection.

Steve, he's somewhat startled to realize a few months later, has no expectations of him. He's free to do what he wants. This is typically easier said than done. He's done hunting Hydra, for the time being, but he's still struggling with the idea of being a human rather than a weapon. He thinks the word 'human' is inappropriately applied anyway. If he's anything, he's a cyborg. It doesn't bother him, though he thinks Steve expects it to. A cyborg is better than a ghost, even if he sometimes wonders if he's really still alive.

He knows he's lucky that Steve is so willing to help him. He's amassed caches of weapons and money all over the city. There are more safehouses all across the continent that he could stay in for at least a few days before anyone caught on. But he likes coming home. He likes having someone. He likes talking with Steve about the life he once had and the person he once was.

On the good days, anyway.

_In your head, in your head, they're still fightin'_

_With their tanks, and their bombs_

_And their guns, and their drones_

_In your head, in your head, they are dyin'_

He wakes up with hard eyes and Russian on his tongue. When the man in the next room doesn't give him the correct order to stand down, he neutralizes the threat and leaves. It's hours later that he snaps out of it and finds himself sitting on a boat anchored at a dock on the Upper Bay. At first he's simply baffled. Then the memories come back. He goes straight back home, desperately hoping he hasn't killed Steve, who was too damn stupid to fight back.

He finds out he broke Steve's nose and dislocated his shoulder. He won't go near him the rest of the day. Until now, he'd been doing well, or so he thought. Clearly there's something still wrong in his head for this to have happened. He can't stay here any longer. Steve claims he's fine, but he remembers just enough to know that Steve would lie in a heartbeat if he thought the truth would hurt him.

It's somewhat frightening to realize how much Steve means to him. He could have done permanent damage, even killed him. Their meetings have proven that Steve would literally rather die than hurt him. He doesn't know what to do with that, so instead he runs. He leaves in the middle of the night, with only a note left to let Steve know he hadn't been taken against his will. He simply can't be responsible for further injuries or even an attempt on Steve's life. The Soldier is far too unpredictable.

New York City is left behind him as he hunts down all the information Hydra had about his programming. It will take him months, if not years, but he needs to find a way to keep himself from being such a threat. He can only imagine what kind of consequences he would be facing if he'd attacked anyone else. There has to be some kind of information out there to explain what's wrong with him and how he can avoid any future dissociative episodes.

A part of him feels as though it's wrong to be researching himself in such clinical tones. It feels too much like the cool, analytical words used by the scientists who did this to him. But they know more about him than he knows about himself, so he tamps down anything that makes him feel like this is the wrong path to take and goes in search of them.

Months of searching turns up nothing. He takes out his frustration on the room he's holed up in and fights back the iciness creeping up inside him. He can't afford to lose himself. But there's a chance that this is something irreversible, that he won't be able to stop it no matter what he does. It's a new type of fear clawing at him – he's lost himself many times before, but it had always been someone else's doing. He's never lost himself simply to the passage of time. He doesn't think he's afraid, in the typical sense, but what does he know of typical any more?

_I wear this crown of thorns_

_Upon my liar's chair_

_Full of broken thoughts_

_I cannot repair_

He finds it in Spain. A fully intact Hydra reconditioning center. It must have been abandoned soon after he started his hunting. Smart men. Their records, however, tell him nothing that he doesn't already know. He snarls and throws the monitor through the bay window set into one of the concrete walls. There's the raucous screech of metal against metal, and he pauses. He'd thought all the rooms were empty...

There's a reconditioning chair sitting in the middle of the room below him. He's backing away before his mind even fully processes what it is, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as the room swims alarmingly before him. He needs to get away from it. He can't be in the same room, even the same building, as that thing.

The panic crashes over him, and as it recedes, he realizes how foolish he's being. It's an inanimate object. It can't do anything by itself. There's no people here. No scientists. There's not even any power to the building. He's an idiot for panicking over it, and shame flushes hotly through his body.

He walks down the steps slowly, hesitantly, and pauses in the doorway. It looks the same up close as it did from the control room. That doesn't mean he likes it any more. But he came here chasing his demons, so he can't be too surprised that he found one. He stands there staring at it for what he knows is far too long. Eventually he steps into the room, his combat boots thudding heavy and final against the floor, sending up little puffs of dust that settle on his clothes and in his hair.

He hesitates for a long, long moment before reaching out to touch it. Even though it's with his left hand, he yanks it back as if burned, clutching it to his chest as he pants through something far too akin to terror. It passes in a few minutes and he makes himself reach out to touch it again. This time his hand rests on the leather-padded arm. Now that he's looking at it, he's not flooded with nearly as many bad memories as he was expecting.

Maybe it's because he knows nothing can happen to him. The building is empty and dead, motion sensors set up around the perimeter, and the Chair itself isn't even connected to the facility's power grid. His fear may have overrun his common sense for a moment, but he's back to operating properly now. He doesn't have to be afraid. His breath catches in his lungs anyway as his hands shake.

 _Keep far from us all evil._ He takes his knife and hacks at the power cord leading from the base of the chair. It's old and neglected. The wires are scattered in a frayed mess on the floor. He spends a long few moments stripping back the insulation and leaving it in a shredded heap at his feet.

 _May our paths be free from all obstacles._ He circles the chair, poking and shoving at it, to see if it's still structurally sound or if he should be worried about it collapsing just from the weight of his gaze. Solid as ever, it seems. He can't say he's surprised. It was meant to contain a genetically modified supersoldier wild with terror.

 _From when we go out until we return home._ He settles gingerly at the edge of the seat. He doesn't know what he's expecting. Maybe for the room to burst into flames or for the chair to grow sentient tentacles. Instead nothing happens. Nothing. He lets out a shaky breath and manages to inch a little farther towards the back of the chair. He knows he'll never be able to make himself sit in it as he's meant to, but just the fact that he's here at all is progress in his mind.

He can only manage to sit there for twenty-eight seconds before he launches himself out of the chair, chest heaving. That's enough. He's proven – something. He's not quite sure what. That he's truly insane, maybe. For a moment he stares at it, memories filtering back. Cryofreeze was the only thing nearing peace that he's had since falling from the train.

It's a tempting thought, but only for a moment. He could never properly operate the machinery on his own. And he doesn't know anyone he would trust to put him under besides Steve – and he's realistic enough to know that that will never happen if he gives the other man the choice. He doesn't think he could stand not being in control of himself, anyway. Maybe as a distant, unlikely backup plan.

He douses the Chair in gasoline and waits until it burns to an ashy, warped thing before he leaves the rest of the facility untouched. It will only be a waste of time to try to set a spark onto the concrete and steel. And it's time for him to go back home.

_We are the broken ones, who chose to spark a flame_

_Watch as our fire rages, our hearts are never tame_

It doesn't surprise him to see something shady going down in the Bronx. He picked the neighborhood because it was dangerous. The street punks have learned that he's not a man to be messed with, despite the quiet demeanor he presents to the world, and it's not a bad place to live with that in mind. He walks along the shoreline of the Port Morris neighborhood sometimes when he can't sleep and that's what brings him to a new point in his life.

He doesn't have the hero complex necessary for him to want to insert himself into every little drug deal and weapons sale that goes on in the city. Other vigilantes are more than welcome to take that burden upon themselves. He's ready to keep walking, hasn't even broken stride, when one of the people shift and he sees light reflect from the cuffs on their wrists.

Fuck that.

He strides up to the group, taking note of all the important details as he approaches the scene. Both of the men are talking, their hands moving in lazy, confident gestures, one with a pistol tucked in the front of his jeans. All three of the women are huddled together, the youngest-looking one clinging to the arm of a woman that could pass as her sister. He's seen this before. Someone helpless at the hands of an armed man who doesn't even see them as a person. He's not about to let this play out when he can stop it.

One of the men, the one with the gun, notices him and tells him to leave. James doesn't say anything in response. Instead he punches the man in the throat, hard, with a metal fist. Waits for him to collapse and collects the gun in one fluid movement as he steps over the body. The second man is foolish enough to try to use one of the women as a human shield. James smirks and raises the pistol.

It's not hard to find the key to the handcuffs. He crushes the barrel of the gun in his left hand and drops it on the gravel. No use for it now. The three women stare at him in undisguised terror and he crouches down to hold the keys out to them, palm up. One of them is brave enough to snatch it from his hand, and he backs away from them to give them what space he can. He searches the two bodies and takes the cash he finds in their pockets. The women are still staring at him when he's finished.

“Come with me,” he says eventually, and takes off his jacket to hold out to the youngest girl. He leads them to a shelter a few blocks away and slips the roll of cash into the jacket pocket. Neither is a huge loss. He waits across the street to make sure they're taken in and then disappears into the night. He has a new job to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I just really like the idea of Bucky deciding his new life's work is rescuing other people who have been kidnapped and abused, and subsequently being adopted by all of them in return. Also he totally replaced the Hydra star on his arm with a Star of David. Fight me. 
> 
> Russian is courtesy of google translate, so if you've noticed that I mangled anything, let me know. 
> 
> List of the songs (and that one quote) in italics, in order: 
> 
> Jack Savoretti - Soldier's Eyes  
> All Good Things - Beginning Of The End  
> Snow Patrol - What If This Storm Ends?  
> Paper Route - Glass Heart Hymn  
> https://sebastianfucker.tumblr.com/  
> All Good Things – Machines  
> Halsey - Gasoline  
> Machine Gun Kelly, X Ambassadors & Bebe Rexha – Home  
> Halsey - Control  
> Lin-Manuel Miranda - Wait For It  
> Kaleo - Way Down We Go  
> Andy Black - Ribcage  
> Thirty Seconds To Mars - Walk On Water  
> grandson - Blood // Water  
> Hozier - To Noise Making (Sing)  
> The Cranberries – Zombie  
> Johnny Cash - Hurt  
> The Score – Born for This


End file.
